It's an accident. It really is but, given their history, it's not exactly surprising that their next meeting happens like this.

They'd collided on the stairs at his friend's house party, neither one of them noticing the other. He was on his way up, she was on her way down. Clarke's covered in luke warm beer that just sloshed out of his red solo cup. And to add insult to injury, she's wearing white. Again.

She is clearly in shock, the series of events not quite sinking in yet. Bellamy would prefer to have her attention on him, not on the beer or the state of her very see-through shirt which is when he realizes that being an ass has worked so far…

"You're right, trouble seems to follow you. And you really need to stop wearing so much white."

Where she was gaping like a fish before, her mouth is set in a tight line and her eyes are burning holes through his skull. She is definitely on the verge of killing him. He realizes that in this instance being an ass may not have been the best choice. In a move toward self-preservation, Bellamy raises his hands in surrender and says, "I have an extra shirt upstairs. It's yours, if you want it."

She huffs and looks toward the ceiling, breathing deeply. It seems like she's trying very hard to calm herself before she does anything rash. Thats when he adds, "I can also lead you to a private bathroom and give you a towel so you can clean up." He feels like this is a pretty good deal given that they're at a pretty raging party off campus with lots of drunkards that will harass her, and she probably walked here and, at this time of night, it's not exactly warm enough for her to walk home wet. He may be an ass most of the time, but he's a gentleman.

She must agree because she sighs and replies with a short "fine" and gives him a signal to lead the way. He moves forward, up the stairwell, as she turns to follow him.

They're close to their destination when she says, "Do you live here?"

"Uh.. No. My friend, Miller, does." As he answers, he opens the door to Miller's room, ushers her in and closes the door behind him. He guides her toward the door in the corner and explains, "The bathroom's behind that door. Let me grab you a towel and shirt."

When he returns, he is struck dumb by the sight. She has removed her shirt and is scrubbing it in the sink. Her back is to him but he can see all of her through the mirror and her pastel blue lace bra is doing nothing to hide her features. He's not sure how long he is staring at her when she notices him. He expects her to try and cover her body but she only raises an eyebrow at him. Without breaking eye-contact, he moves forward and sets the washcloth and t-shirt on the counter next to her. They continue to stare at each other as she wets the washcloth and begins to wipe her body off.

It doesn't take long for his resolve to break and he's standing right behind her. He latches onto her waist and pulls her back flush against his chest.

"Bellamy, what are you doing?"

The way his name sounds coming from her lips only spurs him on, "This is your fault."

She's watching him carefully when his lips skim her earlobe and he leaves open mouthed kisses down her jaw, neck and across her collarbone.

She snakes her arm up and weaves her fingers behind his head and into his hair. "No it isn't. You spilled beer on me." She takes a hold of his hair and uses it to force his lips onto hers. This kiss only helps to escalate things further. Clarke has turned toward him now and he's trying to memorize her curves. He's ready to lift her onto the counter when she detaches her lips from his and ducks under his arm. She's almost to the door, pulling the t-shirt over her head, before he realizes what's happening.

He tries to step forward but he's so hard…"Shit, Clarke… Wait."

Before she leaves the room she turns to him, smiles, says "Bye Bellamy. Thanks for the shirt." and winks.

"Fuck."

By the time he calms himself down enough that he can actually leave the room without everyone noticing his junk, she's gone. "Fuck."

NOTE: I'm sort of evil.